Mud-slime eddies rapidly scraping stones on the stone slime-mud wall
Shielded by a line of oak from eyes. A stagnant pool
Of traffic glistens through the trees whose leaves ripple.
Tongues like raw liver babble into metal shells of phones
Whilst others tick nervously, tapping Blackberry drums
With yellow maggoty fingers, my own mind racing:
She has a lover now who draws on her breasts
And whispers music into her ear with his smiles,
Who parts the seas for her and her thighs.
The beggar's blanket that London likens to a sky can no longer hide me,
Press me under its grey-white sheets, keep me in the folds of its streets,
Its brisk buildings, bristling sharp with brick and slate, its grime and soot
Covering me like glitter whilst its deadening silence swiftly stings my eyes;
I am pulled forward
By the lurch of the train and the thought of your smile,
That wide chocolatey monkey-grin that even kings must bow down before.